


In the Wee Small Hours

by shipshape_sheep



Category: Prometheus (2012)
Genre: Confusing android feelings, Cryosleep, David's complicated relationship with humanity, Dreams, F/M, Moderate creepiness, Pre-Movie, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-16
Updated: 2013-06-16
Packaged: 2017-12-15 05:23:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/845801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shipshape_sheep/pseuds/shipshape_sheep
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>David watches Shaw dream.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Wee Small Hours

For two hundred and fourteen days, David had been alone. “Alone” was a curious word: it seemed to hold such ugly connotations for humans. Boredom, emptiness. Rather than a state of lack, David viewed this uninterrupted time of reflection as a gift. He was accustomed to being treated like an accessory, a tool, an appliance to make the lives of others easier. This was the first time since his creation that he had been left to his own thoughts and activities without someone else constantly controlling his actions. There was no one to monitor him, no orders to take. He was, temporarily, free.

He could watch films for days on end without interruption. He could ride his bicycle through the abandoned corridors of the darkened vessel. In the recreation hall, he could sink shots over his shoulder without looking—there was no one to remind him to hamper the actions that came naturally to him so he would not seem superhuman or unreal. He could recite poetry to himself without pausing for breath, faking hesitations. 

His only tasks were to ensure the ship remained on course, continue his studies in the areas of language and communication (hardly a chore,) and monitor the members of the team sealed in cryosleep.

David watched over them as they slept. He made sure their vitals and neuro-readouts remained steady. The daily ritual of taking care of them was soothing. It reminded him of gardening. He felt strangely tender toward them—so defenseless, hovering between life and death in their fragile capsules that were like cribs, or coffins, or seed pods.   
The first time he looked in on Shaw's dreams, it was almost an accident—though David was incapable of making a true mistake. He merely overstepped his bounds a bit. He had only meant to investigate a blip her neuro-map, and then, suddenly—there it was, every imagining of her unconscious mind. Open to him. More vibrant and colorful than any film. 

The only dreams he had ever viewed were Weyland's, which were dull: the gray-on-gray watercolors of an elderly mind overburdened with memories of laboratories and boardrooms. Shaw's dreams were different. Her memories were preserved with remarkable clarity, almost on par with a synthetic storage system. Moments of her life were frozen with the precision and delicacy of snowflakes—but the transitions between the moments were what truly fascinated David. Fluid, intuitive, poetic. The lights of fireflies in her grandfather's backyard became the streetlamps along the avenue of her first apartment. The lazily spirals she traced in the dust of her father's archaeological dig became the chalky drawings carved into the cave walls—gods gesturing. Shaw was a stranger to David, but through watching her memories, he had come to recognize her as an exceptional human. 

Most people David came into contact with viewed knowledge as a way to make their lives easier and less challenging. He recognized that his own existence as an invention was no different. He was a crutch, designed for the comfort of others. Shaw's relationship with knowledge was refreshing. She was obsessed with truth, gathering information even when it alienated her from others, kept her awake night after sleepless night. Through her dreams, he watched a life deeply marked by a mixture of loneliness and ambition. Happiness—a return to the blissful status quo—held no value for Shaw.

He looked forward to knowing Shaw when she woke. 

David gazed down at her sleeping body, his head cocked slightly to one side. The yellowish glow of the cryosleep pod cast deep shadows across his face. What would Shaw dream about today? 

A silvery haze gradually resolved into blurred shapes. The edges grew clearer and clearer. He could see a face—male, vaguely familiar.

((Charles Holloway. David recognized the man from videos, from his sleeping body in the cryochamber, from Shaw's previous dreams. His hair was overlong and he wore a rumpled tuxedo, the bowtie loose around his neck. Shaw was walking away from him, down a huge flight of stone steps. The marble glistened with recent rain. The hem of her pale green dress fluttered around her knees. In the light of the columned building towering over the two of them—a university hall?--the fabric was nearly translucent.  
Holloway reached out, touched Shaw's arm. “Don't go yet.”))

David tried the words himself. This was not the first time he had used Shaw's dreams as a primer on human behavior: it amused him, and he supposed he could use any practice he could get. Flawless integration among non-synthetics was ideal. “Don't go yet.” A poor imitation of the husky urgency in Holloway's voice.

((“What is it?” Shaw turned her head. A smile flickered around the corners of her mouth.   
Holloway's smile was more definite. His gaze was steady. “Just stay a minute.” He closed a hand on her shoulder.))

Slowly, carefully, David extended his arm. Grasped a phantom shoulder. His blue eyes were luminous, utterly focused on his experiment.

((Shaw looked down, her dark eyes shy. Very different than the direct, authoritative scientist David had come to know. “Everyone's gone. You should be heading home too...it will rain soon.”

“Are you cold?” Holloway shrugged off his tuxedo jacket, settled it on Shaw's shoulders before she could object. “You're shivering.”))

“You're shivering.” No—that wasn't very good at all. David pressed harder, trying to capture that funny little jag in his voice, that catch of aching sincerity. “You're shivering.”

((“I'm--” Shaw began. Holloway lightly brushed his thumb against her lower lip.))

David started to touch the mouth of his invisible partner. Paused. Turned to Shaw's cryosleep chamber. He pressed his thumb against the glass above Shaw's mouth. Stared down at her face. In sleep, her features were still, set, strangely defiant. When he took his hand away, the whorls of his thumbprint remained—and the geometric logo forever engraved in his flesh. Marking him as artificial. A product. A shadow.


End file.
